We’re Not All Country Club Material

Country club.

By Karen White-Walker

I give up! For somebody who’s in her advancing years, I still struggle and strive to cling to society’s niceties, but what do you get? Embarrassment and mortification!

My writing career has afforded me privileges that maybe I otherwise wouldn’t have been exposed to. I mean, like the opportunity to interview “people in high places;” hence, I’ve wondered and scrutinized them as to why they were selected and not the rest of us? Believe me; we’re the lucky ones, for under all that hoopla, I sometimes can sense in them loneliness, a longing to still be like one of us.

Experts claim that fame and power is an addiction and, just like any drug, one keeps hungering for his next fix, but is never satisfied. No, thank you, but after what happened to me a few years ago, I still wished I could have faded into oblivion. Funny, but that’s exactly what happened on that horrifying night.

Now looking back, unfortunately, I was invited to a classy affair at a highly affluent country club. Trust me, what these members pay alone in yearly dues; I could live on for a year-or two. Hey, come to think of it, I practically do! Well, for this once-in-a-lifetime event, I wanted to be decked out in something “extraordinaire”. You know, maybe be a real stand-out, my attire a real eye-catcher? (My dear readers, please hold that thought) An off-the-rack dress would never do and why? Because for this “one moment in time,” I was going to pretend to be somebody I wasn’t. How pathetic is that? You know, I thought to myself, I’ve been hanging around those celebrities too long, for I’ve always advocated for people to be real and true to themselves. For now, though, I shoved my fervent beliefs aside and off I went to a fashion designer to have an original made. I poured over hundreds of fabrics and finally settled on rich brocade with an ice blueprint on a butter cream background. I tell ya, Queen Elizabeth should have such exquisite taste.

What I thought would be a magical evening finally arrived. With confidence and with more excitement than should be allotted for a woman my age, I entered the “by invitation only” sanctuary. I don’t know what made me do a little twirl with what space the over-flowing room allowed me, but that very instant had I become living proof of that quote that summarizes what happens when people grow older? Once a man, (woman) twice a little boy (girl). It served me right that that halfway spin left me woozy, both from my exuberance and the possibility of my being the best-dressed female on the floor. But then before my horrifying eyes, I saw it! And now I wasn’t quivering from excitement, I was trembling from mortification. Oh no, it couldn’t be! Certainly my disbelieving eyes weren’t seeing what I thought I was seeing? How could the fates be so cruel? What unforgivable sin had I ever committed to deserve this? Well, I have pulled a few boners in my life (most of my life I never ever knew that that had a sexual connotation). But I’ve never spent more than three minutes, tops, in the confessional, so how sinful could I really be? Just take a deep breath, I told myself, in and out, in and out, and when I plopped myself down on the rich brocade, overstuffed couch with an ice blueprint on a butter cream background, I completely disappeared! You guessed it, that damn couch was upholstered in the exact same material as my beautiful “original” gown! I wondered if I could sue both the designer and the upholsterer for mental anguish. What, fashion designers and couch upholsterers never check with one another? There aught to be a law!

You’re better off staying put and not breathing, I told myself. They’ll never see that you’re here. Tell me, what would you have thought had you walked into a formal affair and saw a reserved-looking man sitting on some horrified-looking older woman’s lap? Please keep it to yourself; don’t you think I’ve suffered enough! MSN

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